


Cafuné

by ncfan



Series: Femslash Big Bang 2019 [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Femslash Big Bang, Femslash Big Bang Monthly Challenge, Gen, POV Female Character, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 17:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: You sit awake at night, sometimes, sit awake and stroke her hair. Írissë thinks nothing of laying her head down in your lap to sleep when you invite her to.





	Cafuné

You sit awake at night, sometimes, sit awake and stroke her hair. Írissë thinks nothing of laying her head down in your lap to sleep when you invite her to. You cannot remember if she was ever this free with her affection when still you resided in Aman; you were not close then, you would not have had reason to learn how well she tolerated affectionate gestures, or how well she made them. Better do you remember that she never liked it when anyone touched her hair, not least because that is a trait that has persisted into Endóre. When she’s fully wakeful, at least. When she’s drowsy, when she’s come back from a long day of hunting (either game or not-game, and the way to tell the difference can be found in how strained and taut her face is), it’s a different matter, entirely.

Of course, you’ve heard of this. You know that people, when under strain, when exhausted, can find it soothing to have their hair stroked. The rhythmic motion of fingers against tender scalp and through thick hair can help carry the exhausted off to sleep. And even if you did not know this, you’ve seen it play out before you with Írissë. This very night, you’ve seen it play out. She’s asleep, and quiet, and you have a chance to sit, and think.

Even in the midst of spring, the shores of Lake Mithrim are touched by winter’s chill at night; a gray, frigid fog rolls off of the water and settles wet and skin-numbing onto everything it touches. Once, you were about as sensitive to the cold of winter as you are to a tree falling hundreds of mile away. You are not that person anymore, and you draw cloaks and shawls and blankets close about you in vain attempts to ward off the cold. Any reminder of biting ice in the limitless dark stings you with a cold that runs deeper than the simple cold of cold nights.

Rána’s light is pale and weak compared to the daystar, but it serves. Light as pale as milk seeps through the slats and around the edges of the shutters, spilling in straight, delicate lines across the room, across the pallet occupied by two and the pallet left abandoned, across blankets and quilts and lumpy pillows and cloaks only being used as blankets because those who sleep here search so desperately for any warmth they can extract. Írissë is nearly your height, but she is also slighter, and she’s swallowed up by blankets, the body that rests partly on your folded legs feeling far more fragile than it ought.

Not much hair for you to run your hands through, these days. Your fingers meet empty air so quickly, and it’s hardly a lie to say that that frustrates you, for all that it might be the only reason Írissë lets you touch her hair at all.

The cold upon the Helcaraxë was so complete that all the Exiles’ pack animals were dead within days, either to cold or to butchery, and yet, somehow, the lice that infested scalps and furs persisted, seemingly impervious to any icy breath of wind or brittle sheet of ice. There was little that could be done while you and yours were lost among endless, hungry ice and endless, hungrier dark water. Indeed, any action was inadvisable; not safe to wet your hair out there, and no safer to shave it off and let the cold find another foothold in your bare scalp. For a time, all there was to be done was to let the lice have their little kingdoms, and for you and yours to bide your time.

When you were back on solid ground, when the daystar was hung in the sky and you knew warmth again, things were different. In Aman, you never bore witness to the spring shearing of the sheep, but in Endóre you bore witness to something so very similar. When at last the Exiles had found a place warm enough to do so, all of them shaved their lice-ridden hair clean off of their heads, and rid themselves of the problem in one fell swoop.

Well, most of them did.

Írissë stirs in her sleep, ever so slightly, as your fingernails rake against her scalp. On close inspection, long hunger still has its hold on her face; you can still make out, slighter now than it was, the shape of her skull beneath her flesh. Almost dreamily, you bring your hand down to cradle her cheek, and this prompts no response, not even the slightest twitch.

Írissë took the shears without hesitation, and let Turukáno take the razor to what was left, it not cheerfully, than at least without any real regret. Her thick, wiry dark hair has since grown back just past her chin, but while her scalp was still bare, she wore a scarf wrapped tight over it and barely seemed to care about the lack of hair that necessitated such.

But you, when they handed the shears to you, you shook your head. You backed away in revulsion at the idea of cutting away your hair, even with the assurance that it would grow back in time. Better just to scrub your scalp raw to rid it of the lice and just deal with the tenderness for the next week or so, than wait the several months it would take for your hair to grow back to something resembling its former glory.

You weren’t willing to make the sacrifice. It was far from the greatest sacrifice you had ever been called upon to make, and you balked. Not selfish, surely; you were checking your scalp for lice every day for a month after the initial refusal to ensure that you wouldn’t be the source of another infestation. Not the greatest sacrifice you’ve ever been called to make, but somehow it stung more deeply than any of the greater ever achieved.

No, you never have liked it when someone makes demands of you regarding your hair.

Pride, some might call it.

‘Some’ never like to look inwards on matters of pride.

Írissë’s hair has a remarkable texture; not for the first time, you regret the fact that she only ever permits you to touch it when she’s sleeping, or close to it. The fact that it is so thick, curls so heavily, means that for all that it hangs just past her jaw, it is considerably longer than your hair would be under the same circumstances. You wind a springy lock of her hair around your forefinger and rub at it with your thumb, marveling at how hair so coarse can be so soft. You think you might stay awake through all the night, just to keep your hand sunk into it; the sensation really is remarkable.

Whatever it was Írissë was hunting today, it must truly have left her exhausted, for she does not wake as you shift position and lower yourself onto the pallet behind her, does not wake as you sling your arms around her shoulders. Or maybe she sleeps so well because of your attentions; you couldn’t say. Sighing softly, you bury your face in her hair and breathe in. Her hair smells of mist and damp earth and everything you have come home to, in exchange for leaving behind everything you have ever known. The future waits.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Írissë** —Aredhel  
>  **Turukáno** —Turgon
> 
>  **Endóre** —Middle-Earth (Quenya)  
>  **Helcaraxë** —the Grinding Ice (Quenya); the bridge of ice between Araman and Middle-Earth in the far north of the world. Morgoth and Ungoliant escaped to Middle-Earth by this road after destroying the Two Trees. Later, after the burning of the ships at Losgar, the Ñoldorin exiles abandoned on the other side of the sea traveled to Middle-Earth by this road at great risk to themselves.  
>  **Rána** —a name given to the Moon by the Ñoldorin Exiles, signifying ‘The Wanderer’ (Exilic Quenya); of the Sun and the Moon, it is the elder of the two vessels, lit by Telperion’s last flower; in an early version of ‘Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor’ was said to be “the giver of visions” ( _The Lost Road_ 264).


End file.
